1947
by Jack Borroughs
Summary: Prompt: SSR actually manages to find and revive Steve in less than a year or two after the crash. But there's one problem: Steve has partial amnesia and the last thing he remembers clearly is being dragged to the Expo by Bucky in 1943.
1. Prologue

**Fort Lehigh, Virginia**

**March - 1947**

"What happened here?" asked Brigadier General Philips, surveying the damage to his facility.

"Captain Rogers woke up, Sir." Answered Dr. Stanhope, "Ahead of schedule, of course. I know you wanted to be here when he did, but it couldn't be helped."

"Rogers did this? Christ, I expected better from him. Where is he now?"

"In the secure wing, heavily sedated.… It's worse than we thought. He doesn't remember the last two years."

"Well, he was in a block of ice."

"I mean prior to that."

Philips stared at Sawyer with a blank expression for a moment.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?"

"Operation Rebirth, Operation Neptune, Operation Cauterize; he doesn't remember any of it. The last thing he remember is trying to enlist in New Jersey."

"So what you're telling me, is that as far as Captain Rogers knows, he went to bed one night and woke up in 1947, half a foot taller and two hundred pounds heavier, as a commissioned officer of the United States Army. Is that what you're telling me, Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

Philips mumbled something that might've sounded like 'poor stupid son of a bitch', before he asked,

"What have you told him?"

"Nothing. He wasn't in a talking mood."

"Did he find out what year it is?"

"No. The MP Company had their hands full just restraining him. They addressed him as Captain Rogers, but that's the extent of it."

General Philips looked down for a moment.

"He doesn't know the war is over. He doesn't know we won. He doesn't even know he's a soldier. In his mind, he's at that part of his life when he's some nobody New Yorker. He's going to reach out to someone…And he's not going to be there."

"Sir?"

"Captain Rogers' NCO was a man called Jim Barnes. They were best friends, knew each other since they were eight; practically brothers.

"Sergeant Barnes was MIA days before Captain Rogers disappeared. He's going to want to know, and I'm going to have to tell him."


	2. The Hermit

Steve opened his eyes, and saw the same beige walls again. It was going on two weeks since the nightmare began. Every time he would wake up, he'd expect to be sleeping on the couch at Bucky's apartment.

He was beginning to loose the conviction that it was bound to end. He must've been trapped in a coma, all his ailments finally ganging up against him, suffering this bizarre dream.

What was worse, he might've not been dreaming. It could've all been true. It was all so detailed, so elaborate. A terrifying man, an Army one-star General had visited him often, pretending to be nice and telling him he had a whole life in the Army that he just forgot, that he was a war hero and that Bucky was gone.

They showed him pictures from his procedure, shaking hands with an elderly, dignified man. They showed him medals, Purple Hearts and Distinguished Service Crosses, just like his dad got, only Steve had more of each. They gave him newspapers and dossier to read about how the Berlin paperhanger got taken care of.

All Steve wanted was to wake up, find his way into the armed forces, serve his country and make it home. This didn't seem like the type of nightmare he'd have. His nightmares were visually-oriented, as befitting an illustrator, all monsters with eyeballs on their finger tips and grotesque butchers wearing helmets that were too small.

This was a writer's nightmare, or the truth.

The beige-colored room was different this morning. As he turned his head, Steve saw there was a man standing at the foot of the bed. The man was tall, wore a neat mustache and a uniform with three stars on each shoulder. The uniform wasn't one like he'd ever seen before, not the least because of the maroon colored beret he wore.

"Good morning." The man said in a British accent of the likes he'd only heard in movies, "Please don't get too excited and hit me."

"Who are you?"

"Captain James Falsworth. We're friends."

"We are?"

"I'd prided myself that we were."

"How did we meet?"

"I was in a cage, and I looked up and there you were."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. The doctors warned me from…. I was a prisoner of war, you rescued myself nearly four-hundred other men. After that you asked me to be a member of your unit."

"We served together?"

"Yes. I was a Lieutenant then. I was your second-in-command."

"You? Not Bucky?"

"No.. Not Bucky."

"I mean no offense, I just…"

"It's alright. Sgt. Barnes did undermine me with a degree of impunity. He was always more loyal to you than to the mission."

"Sounds like him."

With a little hesitation, the British Lieutenant produced a folded photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Steve before sitting down.

"What's this?"

"Headquarters Section, Able Company, 2526th Strategic Scientific Reserve Battalion, more famously known as the Howling Commandos… It's us; our unit, your commanded."

The photograph depicted a group of seven men, carrying expressions that were varying mixtures of smug and tired, gathered around an Army Jeep, while the wreckage of a gigantic tank loomed in the background. There was a Black man carrying a machine gun, an Oriental man who looked very annoyed, a large burly man in a ridiculous hat and an especially ridiculous mustache, a small man who was older than the rest, and then there was Falsworth, and Bucky, wearing a blue jacket, totting a Tommy gun, like he'd fantasized about doing years ago when he and Steve went to the pictures to see James Cagney in iG-Men/i.

And then there was a man wearing an odd uniform with a star on his chest. He could only imagine how garish it would've looked in color. It was the same man he saw when he looked into a mirror, who everyone assured him was him, and that he'd have to come to accept that was the truth.

"That's you, yours truly and Sgt. Barnes at the front, obviously." Falsworth explained.

"The Japanese fellow is Tech Corporal Jim Morita; squad radio technician. The black chap is Private First Class Gabriel Jones; machine gunner, interpreter and closest thing we had to a medic.

"The unfortunate soul with the hideous mustache and ghastly bowler is Corporal Timothy Dugan; weapons specialist and driver. The last man is Jacques Dernier; demolitions and explosives."

"What did Bucky do?"

"He was our sharpshooter. Damn good one, as well. In Belgium, lying in the snow all night and all morning, he held off a two Battalion of the SS by himself while the rest of us were struggling to do the same somewhere else. He was a good man."

"Was…" Steve repeated.

"I thought they'd told you."

"They did. How did he go?"

"I wasn't there." Falsworth answered with a hint of guilt, "But you, Barnes and Jones were boarding a train in-transit by use of a zipline. Upon insertion you engaged the enemy onboard in a firefight. A carriage was damaged during the firefight, ripped open, and Barnes was blown out into the ravine bellow."

* * *

><p>"Rogers, I'm afraid I have to leave." Said Falsworth as he stood up, "But I want you to remember, I'll be there should you ever need me, you just have to call. I'd also like to invite you to come visit me in Birmingham when you're able. Mother would love to meet the man who'd made sure she got her son back."<p>

Steve stared at him for a moment and nodded.

"Thank you, Sir."

Never had an expression of respect caused such grief in a man. For Falsworth, Steve addressing him as 'Sir' was beyond bizarre. If anything, Falsworth should've been the one to do so, and he would've, except Rogers had shirked military modes of address among the commandos during the war. Everyone called the Captain Rogers, Steve or Cap, and everyone called him Falsworth, or 'M'Lord' if they thought he was acting lofty.

"So long." Falsworth said with a heavy heart.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, Sir." Said Falsworth, "I did my best."<p>

"I know you did, James. No need to apologize." Said General Philips, sitting behind his desk, "You are dismissed."

"Sir, with respect, I request to be appraised of Captain Rogers condition."

Philips seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding and saying, "Of course."

Falsworth stood at attention before leaving, at which point Philips turned his attention to Dr. Stanhope.

"Well, that didn't work. What now, Doctor?"

"Captain Falsworth invited him to stay with him in England. After a while, perhaps it would be beneficial for him to do so. The key is to try to trigger the resurgence of his memories through introducing him with elements that should be familiar. I the meantime, perhaps more of his friends could be brought in to visit him."

"Sure. Despite it being a security risk, I'm prepared to reactivate Gilmore Hodge and have him punch Rogers in the arm if it gets me the Captain back. But I'm going to want to expect results"

"Amnesia has no easy or tried fixes. It'll take time, and persistence, and plenty of luck for us to get Captain America back. The fact is there is no guarantee."

Philips nodded.

"Well, thanks for shooting straight. I'm heading for Washington, you can talk to Colonel Pryce about arranging visits."

"Sir, you mentioned he'd been close friends with a Sergeant Barnes. Was he as close to anyone else?"

"No. Falsworth and the rest were second best."

"What about women?"

"There were no women." Philips answered glibly before he went for the door without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	3. The Fool

It was going on three months now, and Steve hadn't regained any memory of events occurring in the period from March 1943 to March 1945.

He'd been introduced to a number of people he supposedly knew in the hopes that they might coax memories back to light, soldiers he'd lead or people he'd saved. None were the least bit familiar, though he thought the one with the mustache was quite a character, and in the real world he'd have loved to sketch him.

Eventually he was released. The General informed that they were keeping the news of his discovery under wraps, and that the Army would take care of their own. He was set up in New Jersey, where Steve is much less likely to be recognized. _Answer to the name_ '_Patrick Collins'_ they said to him, should someone recognize him, the SSR agents would swoop in and achieve an understanding with whoever did the recognizing.

He accepted it all with a nod and an _'Okay'_. When going insane or riding out a nightmare, it was probably best to go with the flow.

After a week, it was clear that Rogers getting recognized wouldn't be much of a threat since he'd been holed up in his apartment the entire time, trading one beige painted room for another. Groceries were carried up every couple of days by the agents on site, the most excitement they were ever going to get on that assignment.

And so the weeks passed, mostly doing nothing but wait to be tired enough to sleep.

* * *

><p>Came a day when Captain Falsworth reiterated his invitation. Steve accepted, and one flight later, he found himself in England, staying as the Falsworth Manor in Birmingham.<p>

To Falsworth's credit, he seemed to want Steve to have a good time and come out of his shell instead of trying to make him remember. Falsworth took him riding to hounds, rowing and tried to introduce him to golf. Indoors, he was introduced to the best British cuisine had to offer, spending some time in the company of Falsworth's mother, Lady Olivia, a very composed and regal but ultimately caring matriarch who was a great host and treated Steve with a degree of affection.

It wasn't the worst place to be, or wouldn't be if it was real. It was all a little too much like a Jane Austen novel, except Falsworth didn't have sisters who shared a rivalry.

He did have a brother, though. His name was John, and he was the black sheep of the Falsworth family. The moment he showed up, he felt a great dark cloud descend upon James and Lady Olivia, and he would learn why soon enough.

Over dinner, John, who had recognized Steve from wartime newsreel footage, sought to let Steve know of how well he thought of German National Socialism. It was a surreal experience for Steve, breaking bread with a Nazi-sympathizer. He was sure he was in a coma then. He said nothing but stare, eyes wide, as John lectured him, while James simmered in shame, until John eventually asked him something or another, about what it felt like to mutilate German children.

"I… I don't remember." Steve mumbled, and James lost his patience. The Falsworth brothers got into a row that moved them to another part of the manor. Lady Olivia graciously apologized for John's behavior, and made light conversation until dinner was over and Steve excused himself. She accepted, her voice betraying for once her feelings of shame and grief.

* * *

><p>Sitting in a pub, the nearest to the manor, Steve had arrived at a new piece of evidence to support that he was dreaming. Try as he might, no matter how many pints of bitter he drank, he remained completely sober. He had very little doubt about it at the moment, and was wondering if when he was absolutely convinced was when he would wake up.<p>

As he gestured for the bartender to get him another pint, he heard the bell on the door ring. Instinctively, he looked to see the pub's newest patron, but they were obscured by the bodies standing between him and the door, and he lost interest.

His pint arrived and he raised it to his lips, taking several swallows before setting the glass down, a little more than half full. A whiff of a certain smell filled his nostrils, lilacs and almonds, overpowering the aroma of drink, sweat and smoke.

"Hello."

The voice was low and strong, like a viola. Before Steve could turn to seek whoever spoke to him, the speaker came into view.

It was a woman, nearly thirty years old. She had a creamy white, blemishless complexion and full red lips. Her thick brown hair was impeccably styled and she sported a black coat that reached her calves. She was very beautiful, so much that Steve felt momentarily scared. She turned her wide green eyes toward him as he she settles onto the stool next to him.

"Um… Hi." He said in a near whisper.

"This seat isn't taken, is it?"

"No."

"Good. Are you having a nice night?"

"…Yes."

To say women were never his strong suit would be an understatement. They were his weakest suit. He was beyond hopeless, beyond terrible. The handful of times he'd went on dates or touched or kissed a girl were due to Bucky's help and a lack of standards in his dates.

Even in this dream, where he looked the way he looked, talking to a beautiful girl that was made-believe, he was a sad wreck. He told himself that she was just being polite. There was no need to talk to talk to the pretty, scary girl.

He raised his pint, and as the lager touched his lips, she asked him,

"What brings you to Birmingham?"

He awkwardly lowered the mug, spilling some on the bar and his lip.

"I just asked because… Well you don't sound like you're from here. Are you a soldier?"

"No. I'm visiting a friend."

"I see." She said.

"What'll it be, ma'am?" asked the barman.

"Scotch and Soda." Said the girl, before turning her attention back to Steve, "I'm Peggy."

"Steve."

"You seem nervous, Steve."

"Do I?"

"Indeed you do." She said, "I don't mean to pry."

"I guess I've had a strange last few months."

"How so?"

"I don't want to get into it."

"I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?"

He nodded to the negative.

"I'm just trying to avoid being accosted by anyone tonight. If I'm seen talking with you, other men are far less likely to approach me. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, sure."

He tried to start drinking again, but it was difficult to do so with her around. Suddenly, there was a crash behind them, and shouts.

Peggy dropped a few bills on the bar and grabbed Steve's wrist as she got off her stool.

"We should go."

"What? You haven't touched your drink."

"Forget it, we haven't much time. We need to leave."

"Why?"

"I need your help, there's someone after me."

"Oh…" he said, and allowed her to pull him with her as she hastily headed for the backdoor.

"What's going on?" Steve asked, standing in the ally. As Peggy spilled something from a can at the doorstep, Steve noticed there was a car of a British make parked nearby.

"Get in the car." She commanded.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Steve, get in the car."

Going with the flow as always, he did as she said. He got into the passenger seat while she sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine.

"I'm afraid I've mislead you, Steve." Peggy said as she drove out of the ally. Steve was watching the back door, and as the car moved, he saw ten men come running after them only to slip on whatever Peggy was spilling, before they were out of view.

"I haven't been completely honest with you."

"Oh…" Steve said, "You're a prostitute?"

Shock, followed by anger and then incredulousness were expressions that appeared in Peggy's features.

"You…. Have… No idea on how to act like a normal person around a woman, do you?"

"I'm sorry." Steve said guiltily, "I'm really sorry. Talking to you might've been the longest conversation I've had with a girl. A woman. And I have been having some strange months."

Her anger seemed to subside and her expression softened.

"I didn't simply run into you, Steve. I was here looking for you."

"Why?"

"I knew you before, during the war."

"Oh, so we were friends?"

"Yes." She said after a pause, almost as if she wanted to correct him.

"Wow." He said, "It's finally happening."

"What's finally happening?"

"You know how in a dream it all feels completely normal, and then it gets strange, and you realize it's a dream and you wake up? It's happening, this nightmare is about to end."

"You're not dreaming, this is real."

"I just spent the week buddying with a British aristocrat, then I met his Nazi brother, and now I've been kidnapped by a woman out of a Raymond Chandler book."

"You're not dreaming. I'm real. My name is Peggy Carter, I worked with you during the war. You underwent a procedure that changed your body drastically. You underwent training in Fort Benning and Camp Toccoa, did a stint in the USO, and were deployed in late 1943. It's real, all of it."

"Yeah, okay. If you're real, why didn't General Philips or Captain Falsworth or any of the others mention you? I met a whole bunch of people that I was supposed to be friends with, why weren't you with them?"

She didn't look angry or incredulous this time, but sad and guilty.

"It's complicated."

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	4. The Empress

In this strange limbo that was now his life, Steve had been numb for months, but on that night he felt something; worry.

He followed Peggy Carter down the hotel corridor. She said she'd rented a room for the week a few days ago, saying it as if he was supposed to understand that was significance. When he didn't she elaborated that it was so they wouldn't stick out once people came looking for them.

She said they'd be gone by noon tomorrow. Gone where, he didn't know. He was determined to find out as soon as they got in the room. That determination evaporated when she began to unbutton her overcoat and removed it.

She wore a very flattering red dress that showed just how full of curves she was. His mouth went dry and he tried to look anywhere else, but couldn't.

"Well?" she asked expectantly, spreading her arms a bit as if she were on display.

"Well what?" he replied, his voice a touch raspy.

"Nevermind." She said and looked down, seemingly disappointed.

"Was ridiculous anyway" she mumbled, "Too hopeful, Carter… And vain…. Stupid."

It was strange, seeing someone might've been as crazy as he, if not crazier. In a twisted way, he didn't feel quite alone for once.

"Would you sit down?" she asked as she leaned against the table. He obliged, nervously tapping his foot on the floor board.

"What's your last memory before everything changed?" she asked.

"Nothin'. I mean… I don't know. It was just like any other day."

"Surely you can remember something?"

Steve grimaced uncomfortably. Thinking about the schism between life as he knew it and the place he inhabited wasn't something he liked to do. It made him restless.

"I met with someone at the WPA. They were considering hiring me as a muralist."

"Did Bucky ship out at the time?"

"No. He was on leave, staying with me back at the neighborhood."

"So you don't remember the 'Modern Marvels of Tomorrow' exposition."

"I don't even know what that is."

"It was a fair for exotic new technology. You were there with Bucky. He was leaving for England the morning after. You were about to attempt to enlist in the Army for the sixth time, and you two had an argument where you spoke passionately about the importance of doing one's duty. A man called Abraham Erskine overheard you. I'm assuming they've told you this?"

"Yeah, they told me about Erskine. He was the scientist that's supposed to have made me like this."

"I thought we could visit his resting place and pay our respects."

"Why?"

"He was more than just a scientist. He was a good man, and as brief as the time you knew him, he was like a father to you."

"Where is he buried?"

"Augsburg."

"That sounds like it's in Germany."

"It is. He was initially buried in Queens, but after the war was over his remains were exhumed and moved to his home town, in accordance with his will."

Steve looked at her blankly for a moment.

"I don't even know who you are, and you want me to go to Germany to pay my respect to someone I don't remember?"

"Yes."

"Well…" Steve stammered, "I don't think I will."

"I understand how you're going through, Steve."

"You don't." he said sharply, "You really don't."

"Alright. I understand that you're confused, and alone, and perhaps even afraid. You've woken up in a world where you know no one and everyone treats you like something you don't know if you are. You don't know what's real and what's not. You don't know if you're alive or not. I can't convince you anything I say is the truth, but I want you to trust me."

"That's a little too much to ask."

"If this is a dream, then what difference does it make?"

"If this is real, then why should I come with you? Ever since waking up I'd had a lot of people paraded in front of me, had pictures dropped in my lap, all of people I'm supposed to know. If we really do know each other, why didn't anyone tell me about you before?"

"They don't talk about me," she said, with a faint hint of a lump in her throat, "Because I'm not a terribly liked person at present. There was a time when I carried out General Philips' orders, when I oversaw your unit's operations. Then I made a mistake and I was out."

"What kind of mistake?"

"The kind too awful to bear repeating."

"You know, that doesn't make you seem trustworthy."

"People in glass houses, Steve. You used to lie on your enlistment forms." She said, then reached into her coat pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.

"Here." She said, getting up to sit next to him, "I had a feeling you wouldn't believe me."

"What is it?"

It was her, depicted in a sketch drawn in charcoal. Her hair style was different, she was smiling, and for some reason she wore a _stola_ as if she was a lady of ancient Roman society, but it was definitely her. The art style was instantly recognizable as his. That kind of stuff could be faked, and he himself had copied other artist's styles for exercise, but it was too good.

"After we thought you'd died, I found it among your affects." She explained.

Steve was as embarrassed as he'd been in a long time, his ears felt hot and even his hands were blushing.

"I must admit I rather like it." She said.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

"Now do you believe me?"

"I guess."

"So you'll come with me to visit Erskine?"

"How are we even going to manage that?"

"I have contacts. I've already made all the arrangements."

"Well, okay."

"I promise everything will be alright, Steve."

Being given reassurance by a beautiful woman was a new sort of feeling. If this was a dream, she was his favorite delirium.

"We should turn in for the night."

"Okay."

The last girl he shared a bedroom with his mother. The idea of doing so with Peggy unsettled him, but he realized the necessity. He wouldn't try anything funny, he wasn't the type to, but he knew sleeping was going to be a problem.

She was dangerously close to him. Slowly, her face was bearing close to his, her eyelids dropping, she breathed slower.

"I…" he muttered.

"Uhm," she sounded as she stopped, opening her eyes fully.

"I'll take the couch, of course." He said with a trembling voice.

"Right." She said, "Would you… Would you leave the room so I can change?"

"Can do."

He was only too eager to leave the room. In the corridor outside, worried about someone seeing him, he figured out the best way to stand as he waited for his _predicament_ to pass.

A couple minutes later, she allowed him back in. The lights were off, with just enough coming through the thin curtains to a little bit of his way around.

"I've left a spare robe and a blanket on the couch."

"Thanks."

He disrobed in a hurry, resisting the urge to joke that she should look the other way; it wasn't a good time to act like an idiot.

"Good night." He said as he on the couch, the robe around him and the blanket over him.

"Good night."

Steve had the hardest time getting to sleep, and when he did it was very light, but he was the lucky one, as Peggy got none.

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	5. The World

Steve would come to learn that their road to visiting their mutual friend's grave would be a long, scenic one.

In the morning, Peggy was in a more forthcoming mood, though how forthcoming Steve wasn't sure. She said that she'd been in contact with some expert minds, the best qualified to opine on the subject of amnesia, which was admittedly not something they were sure they knew enough about.

His memory loss, she explained, could persist anywhere from a few more days to the remainder of his days. There wasn't a surefire way of restoring his memories, the closest thing they had was to introduce him to stimulants that should have be familiar and hope for the best.

Steve already knew that, Dr. Stanhope of the SSR said the same thing, but whereas Stanhope had arranged for Steve to meet his _friends_ and acquaintances and to get his medals and mementos, things that might've felt good for 'Captain America', there was another school of thought, of which Peggy was a follower, that believed was no more potent stimulant than sorrow and calamity.

"You're not a war hero, you're a soldier." She'd mused, "You exist on a battlefield, not in a parade."

And so a few days later, he found himself with Peggy in a somewhat dilapidated town in Normandy, watching as Peggy offered a few francs to a young girl collecting donations going toward a fund for the restoration of the destroyed fountain in the town square.

"You jumped into this town before D-Day…" Peggy explained, guiding him to sit next to her on a bench, "Originally, the brass wanted you to lead the first company to land on Omaha Beach. Bloody good job they changed their minds, you and your men would have been killed… _Probably._

"Our intelligence claimed that Hydra had a weapon's cache in this town, but in truth they had a whole new batch of tesseract weaponry and two battalions worth of troops, including artillery, anti-air and armor, all together a force that could've made Operation Overlord a catastrophic failure.

"By that point, your commandos had destroyed two Hydra installations, so you weren't a beginner, but you still realized the parameters meant you had to adjust the plan. You withdrew from the town and amassed a force of sixty men. They were mostly from the French resistance, it'd come handy that Dernier was something of a legend among their ranks, but there was also a squad of Canadian pathfinders and a few OSS agents.

"You picked your time and led them into Chanson, and fought Hydra till the bitter end. Only a single Hydra tank was able to escape the assault, but it thankfully never made it to the beach. Your actions allowed thousands of soldiers to complete their mission, and some of those to get home; for that you were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for a second time.

"But of the sixty men you recruited on that day, only four survived. Before then, you'd only ever led the Commandos, or a Platoon of SSR troops at most. You'd never led a force that large and you never lost a single man. Bucky told me that after the battle, he found you wandering through the town square, stepping among the bodies of the men you led and the ones they fought, blood clinging to your uniform, caked with the ashes of men obliterated by Hydra's arms.

"You blamed yourself, thinking that there was some way that you could have done more. Bucky and Falsworth tried to ease your conscience, as did Philips in his own gruff way. In a few days you seemed to have recovered, and were back behind enemy lines, fighting continuously until August of Forty-Four when the campaign ended. That was when I recognized you still carried a burden that could never be lifted."

Steve made a fist inside his coat pocket to keep the tremor in his hand away. He was drawing a blank, and couldn't even imagine what Peggy was describing, but he was feeling uneasy, a sharp discomfort gnawing at the back of his shoulders.

Instead of asking him how he felt or what he could remember, she asked him if he was hungry. They had lunch, and spent the rest of the day walking about before returning to the inn and going to bed. In the following morning, they'd move on.

* * *

><p><strong>Paris<strong>

The theatre wasn't particularly full, but then it wasn't a particularly good movie that was about to begin, nor was it particularly recently released. There were perhaps a dozen or so other people, and Steve and Peggy were the only two sitting next to each other.

In the couple of weeks that had passed, they went from one idyllic French town or lush spot of countryside after the other. Everywhere they went, she'd tell tales of woe occurring on that spot, about his past exploits as a commissioned officer in the United States Army. When she was done, she'd drop the subject, only rarely asking anything of Steve, and they would spend the rest of the day in leisure before moving on.

Though he was never reminded of anything, her tales often left him wistful, filled with a vague awareness that something ** was ** missing, like verses of poetry is a language which's words he no longer remembered the meaning off. More and more, his once overwhelming belief he was having a drawn-out nightmare was fading.

Steve glanced aside to see Peggy reach for her bag of pop corn. She picked out two bits a time and tossed them into her mouth. Even after averting his eyes, Steve couldn't help but smile. He was visiting gay Paris with the most beautiful creature he'd seen in his whole life, no matter how wistful he felt, looking at her always made him suspect he might dreaming.

"Why are you smiling?"

She didn't sound annoyed, but Steve was blushing, and he was thankful for the room going dark.

"It's nothing." He said, burying the smile, "I just used to sit in Brooklyn movie theatres, watch the newsreels, dreaming about going overseas to France or wherever, to fight on the frontlines, to serve my country. I finally get to France. And what am I doing? Sitting in a movie theatre."

A memory of a despondent conversation carried out of the rain passed through Peggy's mind, it was both savory and painful, like a dozen other memories Steve obliviously reminded her of these past couple of weeks. Momentarily, she wondered what would happen if she put his arm around her shoulders and leaned her head against him. His head might've spontaneously gone up in flame, and the poor oaf had enough on his mind, he didn't need the confusion.

Ten minutes after the film began, a man in a brown suit and a fedora walked in and sat in the row right behind them.

"Hello, all." He said in a British accent, "How's the fugitive lifestyle suiting you?"

Steve froze in his seat, but Peggy remained calm.

"Steve, this is Harrison." she said, her eyes still on the screen and two bits of popcorn in her nimble fingers, "He's my little brother."

Steve turned in his seat, momentarily wondering if Peggy would approve. The younger Carter extended a hand which Steve shook. He was a chestnut-haired rogueish sort who didn't look younger than Peggy by much but shared her good looks.

"It's Harry." he said with a smile, "No one calls me Harrison except for Molly over here."

"Hi." Steve said, "Sorry, have we met before?"

"Can't say we did, I was in the Navy. You saved a few friends of mine, though, so I'm glad to see you are up and about. My sister told me so much about you. I'll help however I can."

"Oh, thank you."

"That being said, if you do _anything_ to hurt her, I **will** tear off your _Sergeant America_ with my bare hands."

"….I… um…"

"God, Harrison, this isn't the time!" Peggy said exasperatedly.

"Don't be such a girl, Molls." Harrison said with a friendly smile that still looked menacing as he leaned back into his seat, "Rogers always sounded like a stellar chap, I'm sure he understands."

Steve went back to his previous position, looking at the screen uncomfortably as the siblings around him had a hushed conversation.

"Right." Harrison said, "The Americans know you two are on the run together. No, they don't know exactly where you went, but that's not to say France isn't going to be on the radar. If I were you, I'd evaluate how necessary it is to be here and be on my way out as soon as possible."

"How's your standing at the office?" Peggy asked with concern.

"That's top secret, I'm afraid."

"Harrison…"

"It's alright, Molly. Don't worry about me. Look, the way things are, I really can't tell you anymore. Your escapade last year was embarrassing, but survivable."

Peggy sighed.

"The old man misses you, you know?" Harrison said, "Mother, too, but she knows you can take care of yourself."

"You'll tell them I'm alright?"

"Of course. How are you on passports?"

"We're fine."

"Good."

Harrison handed Peggy an envelope.

"There's some cash and a letter of transit in there."

"Letter of transit?"

"There's an aeroplane at Orly departing to Munich every night this week, carrying various disreputable characters. No one will bother you if you show them this letter. Don't talk to the crew, don't talk to the other passengers, in fact, don't talk to each other until you land."

"I understand."

"And whatever happens, stay away from London."

Harrison stood up.

"I better be on my way. Molls, don't do anything exceedingly stupid."

"Goodbye."

Steve felt Harrison's hand fondly squeeze his shoulder.

"Rogers, good luck, and remember what I said about your todger and my bare hands, eh?"

* * *

><p><strong>Augsburg, Germany<strong>

"Etwas?" Peggy asked.

Steve stared at the headstone for a few seconds more. He'd been staring at it for the past few minutes, raking his brains as Peggy placed some flowers and recited the prayer of intercession. He wanted to conjure a memory of the man buried beneath them, to remember how he spoke or how he cast his eyes at him.

"No. Sorry." He finally said, "I can't remember anything."

"You don't have to be sorry. Do you understand what the words mean?"

"No. It's in German. _Do_ I speak German?"

"Not really, but you could read and understand quite a bit."

Steve shrugged.

"Must be something else I can't remember."

"Yes." She said, "That must be it."

Years of working in the intelligence field had taught Peggy to withhold information by default and to pick the right time to use it. Telling Steve that in saying he couldn't remember anything about Erskine, he was doing so in response to a German word wouldn't have served a point.

But it proved something vital. It proved that there was a chance, perhaps, that somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there might have been a piece of Steve left. It was a spot of hope, the first she'd had in some time.

In her mind, a solution to Steve's dilemma was beginning to form.

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	6. The Lovers

**One Month Earlier**

**Washington, D.C.**

You wouldn't need to see the man's Army service greens bearing silver oak leafs to tell he was a soldier, everything about him screamed the fact; the neatly trimmed hair, the steady, dignified posture, the fierce glint in his eye. Even among the masses of fighting men produced by the now two-year-over war, he stuck out.

He was Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Ross of the United States Army, formerly of the 11th Airborne Division. A black government car took him through Bolling Field to meet the man who'd summoned him, Brigadier General Chester Philips, a man he'd greatly admired.

Philips was one of the Dallas Philips', a family much like the Washington Ross', were renowned for their military service across the generation, reaching back to the revolutionary war. As a Lieutenant, Philips had served alongside Ross' uncle Ryan as one of America's first tankers, and had since been a friend of the family. He stood outside a hanger with bespectacled Captain, and when saluted, returned the salute, allowed Ross to be at ease, and shook his hand fondly.

"Nice to say you again, Alex." Philips said, "How's the wife and kid?"

"They're great, sir."

"Is Thaddeus talking yet?"

"He is. Why, just last week I got him to say _'Hooah'_."

Philips smirked briefly, before resuming his usual serious demeanor.

"I wish I'd ordered you here to catch up, but I haven't."

"I didn't think you did. What do you need, sir?"

"We found Captain Steve Rogers back in March. Alive."

Philips paused to allow the information to properly register. Ross was profoundly surprised, but like any West Pointer worth his salt, he did not allow his surprise to affect his composure and merely asked,

"How is he?"

"He's missing. When he found him, he was healthy, but he didn't remember a day of his time in the Army. The headshrinkers recommended we jog his memory by getting him to see all his old friends. He was invited by Captain James Falsworth, his old Second-in-Command, to visit him in England. We had our men tail him, but they lost him when he went to a pub on his own. Or I should say he was abducted."

"Abducted by who?"

"The one friend we didn't get him to see."

The Captain, whose name plate read Stoner, presented Ross with a dossier marked with a dossier marked with the SSR's seal and a red stamp that read 'BURNED'.

"Margaret A. Carter. British national." Philips started with a faint hint of a growl as Ross leafed through the dossier.

"Unremarkable background; father was a mailman, mother is a librarian, two older sisters, one younger brother at MI-6. She used to be a Lieutenant in S-O-E, did undercover work in Germany and helped us rescue Abraham Erskine, the scientist behind Project: Rebirth. She became an Operations handler with S-S-R during the war…. And she was Rogers' sweetheart. We don't know if he recognized _her_, but we know he went with her willingly."

"Sir, I think I've already heard of this woman. Isn't she-?"

"Yes she is." Philips shot, indicating he did not want to discuss the culprit any further, "You made quite a name for yourself hunting down escaped Nazis these past couple of years, how would do you feel about hunting down Captain America?"

Ross didn't have to consider it. As he was the type to get things done, his answer was prepared even before he knew the mission.

"Yes, sir. I'll get it done, whatever it takes. What about the woman?"

"I want her alive, if possible, but your main objective is Rogers. Are you sure you're up to this? I know you're capable, but some men would have strange feelings about the mission."

"With respect to Captain Rogers, his circumstances qualify him as property of this man's Army, one we can't loose again, particularly not to a foreign power."

Philips might not have shared the exact same sentiments, but was pleased enough with Ross' answer, and he said,

"You get this done, Alex, and I'll see you get your full bird. Captain Stoner fill you in on all details your flight. Good hunting, son."

* * *

><p><strong>London<strong>

Steve knew he was in trouble.

He mostly stopped believing he was dreaming, crazy or in a coma. He more or less believed what had been told for months, that he'd fought in Europe as an Army Captain. Of course the implication was that he'd been running around against the government's orders, with some mystery lady he knew next-to-nothing about. Steve wasn't the most rule-abiding person, as he _did_ lie on his application forms as Peggy had point out the night he met her, but his preset situation was taking it unquestionably too far.

The thing was; he trusted her implicitly. Steve loved his country and respected its laws, and the girl called Peggy was hiding something by her own admission, something serious, and yet he hung on her every word. It wasn't that she had the prettiest face he'd ever seen, something inside him told him that she was the one to follow wherever she went.

He often wondered what she was hiding. The cause of her rift with Philips, Falsworth and the others was something she was reluctant to discuss, but there was something else, possibly about the two of them. On the night he met Harrison, when he went to bed, he wondered if they'd been in love.

In the morning, he thought himself vain for wondering if that was the case. He was Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, and no matter how much height and muscle he got, he was still a clueless oaf who couldn't dance. Sure, she was going through a lot of trouble for his sake, and she didn't seem to notice or mind it when he did something foolish, except for that _'prostitute'_ thing, but she was probably just a really good friend. Bucky would've gone to similar lengths, after all, and Bucky wasn't in love with him. He just wasn't used to being treated with such affection by any girl who wasn't his mother or a nun.

Of course, that didn't keep him from wondering if _he'd_ been in love with her before. It was possible, as he had grown infatuated with her. It was funny, months… Years ago, he'd dream of finding the dream girl, someone from the neighborhood, someone pretty, and short, so they could dance, interested in art, music and literature, and he hoped she was as shy as he was, yet somehow pursue him.

But the girl he'd followed this past month wasn't that girl. She pretty, alright, but she was also a classy London girl, which had to be as far from a Brooklyn girl as any English-speaking woman could get, she was a soldier that talked and acted like one. She was not shy by a long shot, and also a little crazy.

Case in point, after Germany, she'd decided to take him to London after all, despite her brother's stern warning. She promised him that she could handle it, and that Harrison had a misguided, misinformed big brother complex toward her.

Again, her reassurances made him feel safe.

She wasn't exactly the girl of his dreams, but he was infatuated with her. He'd been infatuated with girls before, but perhaps Peggy was a different case.

"Uh… Peggy?" He asked as they walked down busy street, "Do you like art? Or literature?"

She seemed far too nervous for someone whose artistic inclinations were being questioned and quickened her pace as they crossed the street.

"Don't panic, but I think someone's found us."

"Who?" he asked, beginning to panic, barely stopping himself from turning to look.

"I saw Rick Stoner a minute ago."

"Who is he?"

"He's one of Philips' intelligence lot."

"Is he any good?"

"He's a git, but he's operating under someone else. We need to get out of sight." She said turning into an alley.

"Peggy, wait." Steve said, "Why did we even come here?"

"London is where we get you sorted, Steve."

"London? No other place could've done?"

"This isn't the time."

He grabbed her by the wrist as she was walked away, forcing her to halt. Quite involuntarily, he exerted enough strength to spin her around and pull her toward him, electing a gasp out of her in the moment.

He didn't believe what he'd just done, and by the look she was giving him, neither did she. He froze, and felt unable to let go of his grasp on her arm, fearfully anticipating the inevitable slap.

Instead, she kissed him. Those luscious, heavenly, red lips that had captivated him for weeks gravitated toward his and gave him a strong peck.

"I know you're confused, and I know I'm not helping." she said breathlessly, looking over his shoulder.

"I promise I'm doing my best and I promise this will be all over soon. You just have to bare with me for a little longer, okay?"

"Okay." He whispered and swallowed hard, savoring her exquisite taste. He let go of her hand and she hurried off again with him behind her. Out of the other end of the ally they ducked down into a tube station.

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	7. The Chariot

He'd followed her into the tube station and onto a tram car. They sat near the back, with her by the window and him by the isle, and he watched as she trembled and rubbed her arms when the tram started forward, her face a vision of anguish. He couldn't find the courage to ask her why she was scared of Philips' men.

Arriving at the next station, he followed her out and he kept following her as she kept moving. They darted from one borough of the city to the next, doing so for the rest of the day and all of the night that followed. Sometimes they'd think they'd gotten away and begin to unclench, but there would be a policeman, or a soldier, or a man in a coat who looked too well built or shady, and they'd take off again. In twenty hours, though Steve did not tire, by the time they were walking down that ally in Paddington, it felt like they'd been drifting for months.

He trailed Peggy as she hurriedly shuffled on her way to the friend she claimed could help them. She'd gained a slight limp, brought on by fatigue and strain. Then there was something about her ankles and the way they shifted one second, and through instinct, he knew to get out of the way as she spun around, brandishing a gun then opening fire.

On the other side of the alley, two men in woolen coats took cover in a doorway, not out of panic, but out of practiced discipline.

"**Run!**" Peggy barked, firing again as she hurriedly backed away.

Though he didn't exactly freeze, Steve was torn whether to follow her lead or reach to her and take the gun away. The two men on the other side of the alley peered back out and tried to take aim with a little too much care, which gave Peggy the opportunity to hit one of them in the leg. He fell to the ground, howling his lungs out, while his friend vengefully returned fire.

There was a flash of light and a spray of crimson out Peggy's upper left arm, and Steve's eyes shot open. She winced at first, and that gave way to a cry that was brief, and then she gritted her teeth and fired again.

It was then that Steve moved. He wrapped an arm around her waste and pulled her away, almost carrying her as he stalked away from their assailants.

A bullet tore into the mortar on the wall two feet away from him, spraying him with tiny bits of stone, and he heard the howling man bark at his friend, scolding him in a Southern accent, demanding that he be careful not to hit their primary.

* * *

>"It's over." Peggy said tearfully, the pain gnawing at her with every step she took.<p><p>

"It's not over." Steve replied, trying to reassure himself as much as he wanted to reassure her.

In yet another underground station, he'd somehow managed to make it with her all the way to the platform before the train was to leave the station without being accosted. Inside the train was another matter. As soon as they walked in, their fellow passengers turned to them, realizing there was something wrong with the two. That being London, however, they let them keep to themselves.

As the train moved, he looked to her and saw she was silently weeping.

"I'll get you to a doctor," he said with a voice he tried to be brave and strong, "Don't worry."

"You don't even remember this city." She said with a pained sigh.

"But you do. Isn't there someone who could take a look at your wound?"

"What's the point?" she sobbed.

"Don't say that." Steve begged, "Please, don't say that!"

He hadn't known her for long that he remembered, but he knew that it wasn't right, her giving up. It wasn't a Peggy Carter thing to do, it couldn't be.

"We're beat." She said resignedly as she hung her head.

_We can't be. This isn't how it ends._ Something inside him assured. He squeezed his eyes shut, not caring that many of the passengers were staring at them. He pressed his hand to her arm where she was wounded, hoping to slow the bleeding. He'd helped her with a makeshift bandage earlier, but it wasn't enough. She reacted with a slight flinch, but did not shriek or recoil.

"Then maybe we should stop running."

"I can't…" she said with conviction, "That's… I couldn't."

"We have to. If you don't see a doctor, you might lose that arm. We'll got off at the next station, wait for them to how up and surrender."

"No."

"They obviously want me alive. Maybe I can talk to Philips and-"

"That isn't how it works. They want you back for _what_ you are, and they want me captured because of what _I did_."

Steve drew a deep breath. For a long time he let her have her secrets, unsure if trying to pry them out was in his right or his ability. He'd also been afraid to find out on some level, but if this was what it had come to, he needed to know.

"Peggy, what did you get yourself into?"

She looked away from him, out the window at the city where she was born and raised. She took in every last bit of it that she could, not fearful, but certain, that she'd never get the chance again. She thought of faces she would never see again; Rose and Maud, her vapid, dimwitted older sisters, god bless them. She thought of Harrison, her favorite idiot, following in her steps as he'd done since he could walk Mother and father, now in retirement, wanting nothing but for her to leave her line of work.

"I was a soldier for almost ten years." She said, pausing to sniffle.

"I heard of what went on in Guernica and I was incensed. I joined S-O-E straight away, convinced someone I was worth more than being kept in the typing pool, found myself a Lieutenant around the time Dunkirk happened."

She was now calmer, but unmistakably sullen. Sunlight shone through the window, illuminating a tear as it slid down her reddening cheek.

"I never told you this before, but I worked undercover in Hydra for a brief period. That's how we got Erskine out of Germany. I joined the SSR after that, as an Agent. I proved myself to Colonel Philips just as I did in the Executive. He valued me, he trusted me… All of them, they all did. But I threw it all away."

She sniffled again, and seemed on the verge of breaking down, but pulled herself together, cleansing the weakness out with a sigh.

"When you were missing, the Navy launched expeditions to find where you'd crashed, kept it up for a year. Eventually, they… We lost all hope. The ships were recalled, and you were declared Killed in Action. I stayed on at SSR, was put in a subunit charged with of rounding up valuable rogue Nazi scientists. There was one scientist I found last year, Erich Werner. He worked under Dr. Erskine when he was still with Hydra.

"After Erskine defected, Werner joined a separate project overseen by Heinrich Zemo, Schmidt's rival. Werner claimed that while never able to create anything approaching a working duplicate of Erskine's serum, but they did manage derivatives. Formulas that could enhance the performance of soldiers in such ways and degrees as to make soldiers more resistant to factors like starvation, cold, and hypothermia. It was a modest success, only applicable to troops fitting certain physiological constraints, but of the handful of soldiers that had received his derivative, there was one that had survived being trapped without food under rubble on the Eastern front for four months.

"I asked him if that was an inherent attribute of Erskine's formula. It wasn't a wise question to ask, he could easily read what I wanted to hear. He said yes, but he'd have said anything to get taken in by the Western allies. Except that he wasn't lying after all."

"I don't understand." Steve said, "Why'd they-?"

"The Soviets intercepted us. I only barely got out alive, Wener didn't. I made my report when I got back, expecting them to act on it and for the search to be resumed, but they refused. Too much expense for something sounding very shady. I appealed to Philips, General Coulson, even Senator Brandt, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were less than a year in the past, and it was nuclear arms rather than biologically altered infantry that was captivating everyone's attention.

"One of the scientists at SSR, Philo Zogolowski, I'd assigned him to study the designs for the Valkyrie after Stark was done with them. He performed complex calculations that had lead him to divine where the Valkyie had crashed. He died before he could bring them to anyone attention, but I found the report in his desk. Zogolowski was a bit of a crackpot, and I doubted anyone would've believed him in life. I knew that if the ships were to leave again, I had to make them.

"There were two scientists, incompetent frauds, both, but I'd falsified intelligence to make them seem more valuable than they were. I was sent to recruit them, one at a time, made my report when they got back that the Soviets got them first. It was sloppy, and they'd noticed and began to foster suspicions."

Peggy went on to explain her actions. The game of shadows she'd played with men of power that culminated in the Navy sending ships to scour an area off the coast of Greenland, but it was a game too dangerous to play. Elements entered the equation and matters escalated beyond her control, when it was all said and done, she'd been branded a traitor, believe to be a Soviet agent, loosing credibility and going on the run.

It was all too heady for Steve to fathom. He'd been born the son of Irish immigrants, grew up an insignificant urchin, missed out on years of his own life, and wound up following a woman he didn't understand.

"I've seen how traitors are treated." She muttered, dejected as all hell, the tears now drying on her face, "I can't… _I can't_ go through with it! I can't… I can't go through it."

Steve was at a loss. Conversations in the carriage had grown scarce, everyone deftly trying to pick up what the strange couple were talking bothered about.

"We'll figure something out."

She looked toward him, all brown and red eyes, bright with tears and puffy nosed.

"Kiss me?" She pleaded.

And despite never in the habit of being asked for a kiss, he did as she asked, taking her face in his hands and bringing it closer to his own. He kissed her, and that was when he didn't remember, but knew, they he'd been in love with her before, and was in love with her still.

There was a ping, and their lips parted, and he felt something drop in his lap. He looked down to see it was, it was the handle from a pineapple grenade in his lap, the grenade itself in her hand. His eyes went wide as she, her eyes full of grief and shame, said,

"I'm sorry."

Without being delicate, he pried it out of her hand, shoving her further toward the window than she was, and then dove onto the ground, as far away from anyone as possible, planting the grenade firmly beneath him.

"Get away!" he roared, "Get back!"

Panic ensued. The passengers got out of their seats and headed for the other side of the train. Amid shouts and screams, someone was able to open the door that lead to the next, and then passengers spilled out. Only Peggy remained where she was.

Steve didn't know if he'd done enough good or not or what sins he might've committed without realizing, so curled up atop a live grenade on the floor of a London tram car, trembling as he anticipated to learn what it was like to be torn to pieces, Steve Rogers tried to remember the words to the Lord's prayer.

What he remembered instead was the aroma of sunbaked dirt and sweat, and hearing the panicked screams of men as they jumped for cover. He'd never been to Latham, New York, but he could swear that's where it had happened. After that, the rest started coming back, one horrible memory at a time.

He remembered feeling every fiber of his being twisted and seared. He remembered Erskine's bony finger poking his chest twice before life left him. He remembered the slave Camp in Austria.

He remembered Chanson and the bodies of six-hundred German and Frenchmen, their blood and ashes caking the cobblestones of the town square. He remembered the Netherlands and the hopeful push that ended in absolute calamity, the hot-blooded kid from Leeds who saw the Ack-Ack blow the legs from under him as soon as he jumped out of an airplane under a deployed canopy, and lived long enough to land. All for nothing.

He remembered Belgium, sitting out in the snow for weeks, surrounded by the enemy, supplies and ammunition running low, relief distant, re-supplies getting dropped into the German's hand rather than theirs. The kid from Alaska who almost won the Medal of Honor, even thought he lost the ability to form any words even resembling '_Medal_' or _'Honor_'.

He remembered smell of a clearing in the woods created by artillery and the bloodcurdling cacophony of machine-gunfire, like a rabid choir of murderers. He remembered every son he killed and every father he couldn't see get back home. He remembered every family he was too late to keep together and every action he chose against that might've changed everything and would never know if it would.

He remembered Bucky, hanging on for dear life, his whole body whipping in the wind, desperately clinging on with one hand and reaching out with the other, trying to catch him, and the look in his eyes right before his fingers gave away. A frantic, hopeless look that said;

_'You're Steve Rogers. You're Captain America. You're my best friend in the world. And you're not going to save me.'_

He did not remember the words to the Lord's prayer, and even after quite a few tense moment, he did not learn what it felt like to be torn asunder, neither fact mattered to him as he broke down where he lay, succumbing to years of grief, weeping without restraint for the world to see.

From where she'd sat, Peggy looked on in breathless suspense. It pained her to see Steve like that, particularly as it was her that inflicted him, but she was eager to know with certainty whether her ruse worked or not.

She heard a curse dripping with vitriol and heavy steps approaching. Quick as a whip, she pulled out her gun and aimed it steadily after she'd turned, ignoring the pain the sudden movement caused. A rough, burly Cockney in a wool cap and coveralls loomed before her, having stopped in his tracks. He caught sight of the glare she directed at him, and like many men before him, he realized she was one not to cross. Resentfully, sneeringly, he backed away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Peggy's feet could not get her to Steve fast enough. Her gun dropped to the floor with a resounding klang, and she placed her hands on Steve's shoulders.

"Steve?"

"I couldn't…" he sobbed, unable to find the rest of the words, "I couldn't…"

"I know." She said as she cradled him in her arms, stroking the nape of his neck as he bawled, "It's alright. It's all over."

When the train came to a stop, she kept cradling him and shushing him, trying to calm his soul. When they finally came for her, she surrendered. Her wounds would be treated before she would face the consequences of her actions. Steve was paralyzed with grief the whole time, never speaking. Within hours, he was handed to Lt. Colonel Ross.

He was neither fond nor caring, simply satisfied the assignment came to a successful conclusion.

"Welcome back, soldier." he said before putting him in a car with him that headed to Heathrow Airport.

It wasn't until they were in flight did he speak to Steve again, asking, without any genuine concern, " Are you feeling alright?"

"No." Steve mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

* * *

><p><strong>R&amp;R<strong>


	8. The Hanged Man

One night, drinking in the corner of a crowded bar by himself as happy, young people milled about and socialized, he remembered the red dress. It was the night he asked Falsworth and the boys to join his side, when a pretty girl came up to him as he talked to Bucky, all pretty hair, full lips and soft curves, and promised him a dance.

The girl in question was in prison, awaiting trial. The British government had washed its hands of her and so she was left at the Army's mercy. She'd be hanged within a year, and Steve knew there was little hope of anything else. So he begged, and pleaded, with General Philips, Senator Brandt and anyone who would listen. He explained why she did what she had done, vowing to do whatever they wanted in exchange for leniency.

The General looked at him with pity, the Senator with indifference, before they denied him.

His memories had been coming back in drips and gushes. Sometimes he would hear a musical composition and be reminded of the quiet hours spent in one European town after the battle was won and before he was ordered to advance somewhere else, or he'd hear laughter and recall a lewd joke that Dum-Dum had told him over beer, but he knew no matter what he remembered, nothing would ever ease the pain of losing the two people he loved the most.

Weeks went by, as they'd gone before he went to England. There were no more promises of peace to keep him going, no future to dream of, and no dance to get to. He was numb, dying, and alone.

Around him, there was a sharp yelp, an exhilarated utterance of the word 'Yes' followed by rejoice as a young lady agreed to her beau's marriage proposal. The bride-to-be was a waifish, pretty little thing with big round eyes and shinny blond hair, while her groom was a smallish sort wearing spectacles, a smart business suit, slicked-back hair and a dopey grin, who declared everybody's next round would be on his dime. Steve winced as he closed his eyes and took one last gulp of the bar's hardest whiskey. He got up and waded through the crowd, wanting no part of their revelry as his own heart beat duller and duller.

He buried his hands in his coat pockets as he stepped outside and began to ramble. It was a November night in New York, time and place to get home as soon as possible, or ramble on for hours with every thought you avoided rolling around in your head.

* * *

><p>"Wakey-wakey, you bum!"<p>

Steve opened his eyes, the morning sunshine hurting his eyes for a second before they adjusted. He was face-to-face with the hardened visage of an Italian man of thirty, with the irritable scowl he'd seen every sported by two-out-three Platoon Sergeant he'd seen during the war.

Hours earlier, Steve had sat down at a bus stop, somewhere in the Bronx. He wasn't tired and his legs didn't ache, but he wasn't in a walking mood anymore. Instead of eventually standing up and walking away, toward home, perhaps, he'd simply fell asleep.

The Italian was a beat cop, probably at the start of his shift, called Officer Castiglione. He grabbed Steve by his lapel and hauled him to his feet. He shook him about, and was speaking sharply, but Steve failed to listen, taking notice to two men step out of a Packard. They wore tan suits and gray fedoras, and walked straight to Castiglione. The shorter man tapped the cop on the shoulder while his larger partner flashed a military badge.

They were SSR Agents, the tail Philips had put on him for the past few weeks, who kept an obvious, but nigh-inescapable presence. For a couple of minutes, while Steve silently leaned against a wooden divider, they talked to Castiglione, dissuading him from his intent to haul Steve in for vagrancy.

Eventually, Castiglione walked away, looking back with a look of contempt in his eyes, as the two agents lingered.

"Are you alright, Captain Rogers?" the shorter man asked.

Steve simply stared at him vacantly for several seconds, before brushing past him and walking down the street. The shorter man scoffed, and muttered, "Man with a plan my ass. Ain't even worth getting out the car for anymore."

The disrespect fell on Steve's ears, but made no impression. Neither the close brush with a day in the stir nor the bemused contempt he was regarded with mattered to him, there was something far more pressing on his mind, a special, vivid memory he'd got back when Castiglione had him by the jacket, that of **Operation Krampus**, to the last detail.

Toward the end of 1944, Lt. Col. Jim Fletcher of OSS, who'd been undercover in Germany since the late thirties, was discovered and arrested in Austria. The Howling Commandos were dispatched to see that didn't happen. The squad was able to anticipate the route the armored car would take and prepared an ambush. The operation was a startling success, all squad members and Fletcher got away without a scratch and made it to the extraction point without incident.

The United States wasn't Austria, neither did their armored cars resemble each other, but the fundamentals were the same. Could what have rescued an American hero also save an English perceived traitor?

Steve decided to give it some thought as he began to walk again, not out of despair, but with purpose and conviction. He walked, and kept walking from one borough of the city to the next, knowing the tail was still on him. The benefit of coming back from the dead and then embarking on a continent-spanning dash with a rogue agent was that people stopped caring that you acted inconspicuously.

Come midnight, his feet brought him back to his apartment. In his mind, he'd formulated a rough plan to recreate '_Krampus'_ on US soil. He jotted a few things down on a piece of paper before passing out on the couch.

* * *

><p>He woke up at dawn. He didn't remember anything further, but found Harry Carter sitting in the armchair, wearing the cap and jacket of a cab driver, brandishing a suppressed Walther which he steadily trained at his chest.<p>

"Hullo, Steve." He growled. Just like in that Paris movie theater, he was both menacing and genial.

"Harry Carter?"

"Oh your memories are working better? That's nice. You'll remember then, what I'd told you about my sister getting hurt?"

"I didn't-"

"I don't care. She gave up everything for you, and in the end, you didn't even-"

"How did you get in here? There's two SSR agents camped outside."

"Four. I'm MI-6, pal, how'd you _think_ I made it here?"

"Yeah…" Steve muttered calmly, "That's impressive."

"What?"

Even from his position, Steve knew he stood a great chance at disarming Harry without serious injury, but doing so would have alerted the agents outside, and Steve didn't want that. So he started talking, trying to convince the vengeful brother to put down his gun.

It was a tense hour before the situation was alleviated. Harry listened to Steve's plan, his involvement soon becoming implicit. He was to be the one to pull it all together, as Steve couldn't do so himself without causing too much suspicion. He didn't apologize for his earlier actions, and had implied that their truce was tied to the success of their plan, but the plan had begun to come together.

Two days later, after Harry had left to follow up on the first set of Steve's instructions, Steve got on a train to California.

* * *

><p>Getting an appointment with Howard Stark proved difficult, so he waited out on the sidewalk by his mansion, ignoring the doorman's demands that he leave, until Stark returned in his custom-built car chauffeured by his man Jarvis.<p>

Inside, the industrialist who'd found even greater wealth after the war was over, poured two drinks as he joked. He offered to put him up at the mansion while he stayed, and suggested he introduce him to a particularly patriotic film starlet that he was friends with.

"I'm not as gullible as one of your film starlet squeezes, Howard." Steve said, "I know you knew about what Peggy was planning to do, and I know you helped her, but let her take the fall."

Stark didn't react with anything but a mild tremor in his pouring hand. Rogers was always smarter than he looked, that was why he avoided visiting before when Philips repeatedly requested he do so, fearing he'd put two and to together.

"I didn't _let_ her do anything." He said, keeping both drinks in his reach, deciding he needed the alcohol more than Rogers did.

"Did you, uh…?"

"I would be still stuck in a block of ice if you didn't do it. Thanks." Steve said, "Besides, she didn't give you up, and neither will I."

"Much appreciated."

"You're welcome. I'd like six-thousand dollars. Can you spare that?"

Stark looked at him with astonishment. There was nothing about Rogers' expression to imply he was anything but completely and utterly serious.

"For what?"

"Expenses. I'd also like some equipment. Those non-lethal electric assault-rifles you once told me about, have you managed to build them yet?"

* * *

><p>It was another cold New York night, and another bar in Greenwich Village called <em>The Citizen<em>. Years ago, before Pearl Harbor, he'd go there to rub shoulders with fellow aspiring artists. Bucky would often tag along, and on most nights, found himself a pretty artist girl, occasionally someone else's date, and took her home.

He hadn't been there for years, and had found that the faces had changed. Gone were Crazy Joe, French Joe, Patty and Elliot, and even Joe the Bartender. He was saddened as he wondered what had happened to them; lost on the battlefields of Europe or had they given up on the bohemian lifestyle?

He was also relieved. He'd worried that someone might've recognized Captain America, or recall the likeness of scrawny Steve Rogers. It had been risky coming here, but he had to do it. He had to say goodbye to New York and to Steve Rogers and everything he represented.

Christmas was around the corner, and _Krampus II _was set to go.

Harry proved to be a very competent lancer, but then unnervingly intense professionalism must've been in the blood. As Steve was still being watched, he did most of the leg work, gathering the rest of the resources and men needed for the job. He received the equipment that Stark had provided. Tear-gas grenades and assault rifles, roughly of the same appearance as a BAR, designed to fire darts charged with enough electricity to incapacitate a man, however momentarily.

He'd also gotten the crew together, and had been watching over them as they holed up in a couple of adjoining cheap motels in Alphabet City.

There weren't any men in the world he would have liked on this undertaking than the men who pulled off Operation Krampus the first time around; the Howling Commandos. He knew that had he called upon them, they would have answered the call, if not out of their friendship to Peggy then out of their loyalty to him.

Except Dernier had a wife and daughter to look after in Marseilles. Morita was married with a baby on the way, as was Dugan. Falsworth had his mother and the family name to consider. Gabe was a smart kid with the potential to go places no black man before him ever did, and was already pursuing post-graduate studies at the Sorbonne. It was too much to ask of any of them, so another crew of the reckless and daring was called for.

_Red _Hargrove was a New Yorker from Hell's Kitchen, tall and thin with a freckled face and an ever present cigarette holder between his teeth. More than the color of hair, his nickname hinted he wasn't what one would call a model American. He was a barnstormer in his young and flew for the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil war. He also worked for SSR, getting their agents out of hot spots in Axis territory. As far as Steve was concerned, he was a good man and that was all that mattered.

Logan was a Canadian paratrooper, a short, stocky, hairy type with an attitude to match his appearance and an ever present stench of beer, sweat and cigar smoke. During the war he was a fierce and implacable soldier, feared and hated by many, but also a good, honorable man and he and Steve shared a bond of respect.

Harry had brought in Rambling Sid Ridley, a veteran soldier from Birmingham who'd been in SOE. He was mean, surly and entirely disagreeable on any other day, but had owed his life to Peggy from before her time at the SSR, and was determined to see that she was set free by any means necessary.

Harry himself had been in the Royal Navy's Special Boat Section during the war, seeing action in Greece and Burma. While other servicemen looked up to their fathers and uncles, he looked up to his sister, the SOE adventurer. He was extremely motivated, making no bones of the fact that he didn't care about whatever happened for Peggy to be set free.

And there was him, Steve Rogers, Captain America, hero of Assano, veteran of Operation Overlord and the Battle of the Bulge, the Hydra Killer, ready to give up his country.

The gravity of and implications of his designs weren't things that escaped him. He'd be aiding a perceived traitor to the United States, which was paramount to treason itself. Even succeeding, the two of them could only hope for a life spent on the run. He'd be giving up everything, severing every tie he still had.

He loved his country and he respected its laws, but none of that made him love Peggy Carter any less. The prospect of life o the run had plagued him for the past month, but no matter how dreadful it was, he always went back to the same question; was he simply _not_ going to rescue her?

He drank the rest of his beer, paid up and left. It was a December night in New York, the time and place to get home as soon as possible, or walk for a couple of hours, as he'd often done recently, thinking about the caper. Only this time, he'd had the pieces set in place so the men in gray hats didn't find out that he'd disappeared until it was too late.

It was nearly time. Walking through the snow, he started to remember Belgium in January of '45, the night before the planned breakthrough, Morita leaning against a tree trunk, puking his guts out and muttering every curse in the book, while he felt calm, without tension or anticipation. It was a little bit like that.

She'd helped make him into the man he was. She'd given him back his best friend, however briefly. She'd made him fall in love with her, twice, and had brought him back from the dead.

He was going to save her, as she'd saved him.

**The End**

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for sticking with me, all, hope you liked<em> it.


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